


FLIGHT FEATHERS

by Mikkeneko



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II
Genre: First Flight, Fluff, M/M, Wingfic, winged mages
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-01
Updated: 2015-08-01
Packaged: 2018-04-12 10:42:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,514
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4476347
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mikkeneko/pseuds/Mikkeneko
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It was a simple fact that Garrett Hawke had been dealing with all his life: Living with a mage meant living with feathers.</p>
            </blockquote>





	FLIGHT FEATHERS

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired [by Tumblr tags,](http://mikkeneko.tumblr.com/post/125553031389/dogshat-dogshat-there-must-be-something-we#notes) as usual.

 

It was a simple fact that Garrett Hawke had been dealing with all his life: Living with a mage meant living with feathers. Feathers in your bed, feathers in your carpet -- the sharp shafts nestling in among the fibers, waiting for the tread of unwary sock feet -- even feathers in your food. It was as much a natural detritus of family life as dog hair on your toothbrush, and while Hawke couldn't exactly say he'd _missed_  it since Bethany had gone with the Wardens, there was something deeply unnatural about living in a house with pristine, shining, feather-free floors.

When Anders moved in, he made up for that lack in spades.

Anders wore his wings proudly, refusing to hood them or bind them with belts -- but that did tend to mean they got everywhere, banging against walls and sweeping knickknacks off tables, to Anders' profuse apologies and Garrett's unending amusement. He was also in a constant state of molt, and more so when he was stressed, which was always -- on bad days he practically left a trail of feathers behind him as he walked.

But Anders also had grown up in the Circle -- meaning he had no real practical idea of how to take care of those wings, having lived most of his post-adolescent life in the hooded confines of the Kinloch Hold. He had no notion of proper grooming or care, so his feathers tended to be in a terrible state -- dirty and disordered, the feathers ragged and tattered at the edges, their natural white stained a dingry grey. When Hawke had first met him in his clinic in Darktown -- wary and ferocious, mantling as though Hawke was going to try to swoop down upon the patient he'd just healed -- he'd been outright filthy, his wings crawling with parasites. It had not, needless to say, been lust at first sight.

It had been a mark of immense trust -- even more so than Anders moving his belongings, meager as they were, into the Amell estate -- when Anders started allowing Hawke to care for his wings. It was simply too awkward, after all, for a mage to be able to reach behind his or her own shoulderblades.

This at least was something Hawke had plenty of experience with -- his earliest memories from childhood were of lying awake in bed, watching his mother brush out his father's wings in front of the flickering fire. The look of utter peace on his father's face, the little smile on his mother's that he hadn't really understood -- not then. By the time Bethany had developed her wings, he'd been old enough to be tasked with the responsibility of keeping hers clean and in order. Carver had taken over the task when Bethany's wings had stopped growing... and Garrett had taken it back again, without need for asking, after Lothering.

Hawke wondered who was taking care of Bethany's wings now, now that she was a Warden. He hoped they had other mages there, ones who would understand, who would guide her and protect her when he couldn't any more.

But those were thoughts for other days. Right now he had a face full of feathers, a handful of wing, and a boneless apostate draped backwards over the stuffed armchair with his wings spread out over the wide table before him. The wings moved easily when Garrett shifted them, thick shining feathers fanning out without resistance as he pulled the limb straight to brush and trim the rows of feathers.

Once clean and healthy, there was nothing in the world quite so beautiful as a mage's wings. No artificial feather fashion could compare to the warmth and vibrancy of living feathers, how soft and hair-fine the vanes felt against the skin. There was a tingling hum that Hawke felt in his hands, every time he touched the feathers with them, that he had never felt anywhere else; the source of his mother's secret smile.

It made sense, he supposed, since everyone knew a mage's wings were inextricably bound up with their magic. The wings came in when the magic did, and grew as the mage grew; take away the wings, and you had... not a mage, any more.

Anders let out a noise that was half-moan, half-purr as Hawke's hands slid down along the frontal vane, pressing along the fragile bones underneath. He let up on the pressure as he brushed down the length of the remiges, threading his fingers under the edge to lift one carefully up and sight down the length of it. The primaries were thick and strong, their barbs sleek and tight-furled, and ran nearly the entire length of Anders' back. "You know," Hawke remarked, testing the weight and flex of it, "I think these are just about strong enough now."

"For what?" Anders asked, drowsily.

The question gave Hawke pause, perplexed that Anders would need to ask -- until he remembered, once again, that Anders had spent most of his life in the Circle. Circle mages had their flight feathers clipped regularly, ostensibly for safety and health reasons, although everyone knew the real reason why.

Although he'd been a late bloomer, Anders had still been taken by the Circle before his wings had reached their full span. For all the times he'd -- _heh_ \-- flown the coop, he'd never been out from under their thumb for long enough for his feathers to completely molt and regrow. And after the third escape, Anders had been deemed 'high risk;' a high-risk mage's flight feathers weren't just clipped, but cauterized.

It was no less than a small miracle of healing -- Hawke suspected spirit intervention -- that had allowed Anders to reverse the burn scars and let his primaries grow again; for the first few years they'd come in sickly and crooked, before finally beginning to grow straight again. This might be the first time in Anders' entire life, Hawke realized, that his flight feathers had reached their full size.

He let a grin blossom on his face, and tugged on the feathers in his hands; first gently, then more sharply until Anders' wing twitched in his hand, and he twisted his head over his shoulder to scowl. "What?" he demanded.

Hawke scooted his chair around the table until he was sitting beside Anders, close enough to lean in for a kiss. Anders accepted the kiss readily, leaning in and humming with a contentment that seemed to echo the song in his wings; but after a few seconds he broke it off and leaned back, arching his eyebrows inquiringly. "What?" he repeated impatiently.

"What d'you think of taking a trip out to the Wounded Coast tomorrow?" Hawke asked him, still grinning. "We can bring Merrill along, pack some lunch, make a day of it."

"Why, what's on the Wounded Coast?" Anders wanted to know. "More herbs for Solivitus? More bandits? More Tal-Vashoth?"

"Privacy," Hawke answered, "open space, and lots of handy little cliffs to jump off on your first few test-flights."

Anders' expression flooded with shock, his mouth falling open as he sat bolt upright. His wings flared in response to the surge of emotions, feathertips rattling over the tabletop. "Are you serious?" he demanded.

"Perfectly serious," Hawke assured him. "Your primaries are longer now than Bethany's were when she took her first few flights -- of course, those mostly ended with her crash-landing in the river, but better the river than the trees, we all thought."

Anders' wings flexed nervously, vanes rustling together as a daunted look crossed his face. "I never thought..." he muttered. "I used to dream, you know... but I'd given it up as a childish fantasy. I'd hoped, when I joined the Wardens... but I don't know..."

Hawke gathered him close, running his hands through his lover's feathers and feeling the sweet song of magic against his fingers as he did. He felt it again, the same wistfulness as when Bethany had first taken to the air; that there were some things that he could never share, never know. The same anger at the thought that others would look at such holy beauty and want nothing more than to destroy, to cripple, to amputate, to bring the high down to normal or to nothing at all.

But that wouldn't happen again. Anders had admitted to him that he never planned to let the Templars take him alive; he and Justice would destroy themselves along with their pursuers if it ever came to that. Hawke had made his own vows, privately to himself, to give anything it took to make certain it never would.

"I'm honored," he murmured, "that you'd share your first time with me."

* * *

 

~end.

 

* * *

 

(Epilogue:  
  
"....did you just imply that I was a flight virgin?"  
  
"Well, the thought was definitely going through my head, but I wasn't going to be the one to say it..."  
  
"Andraste's fucking knickers, Hawke, you don't get to be the one in this relationship to make virginity jokes. Not after that stunt you tried to pull with the butter."  
  
"He -- hey! We agreed that we were not going to mention that again!")

 


End file.
